


Spring is Sprung

by MistakenMagic



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Language of Flowers, M/M, Middle-aged dorks in love, Thorin's fail gardening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistakenMagic/pseuds/MistakenMagic
Summary: “You’ve already watered the peonies!” Bilbo said, sounding exasperated.Thorin tried not to bristle, but the heat wasn’t helping and he reached up to wipe at his forehead again. “Well maybe you should stop distracting me then!” he snapped back, his fingers flexed around the slowly rusting watering can.Bilbo blinked, seeming surprised, but then he pulled an exaggerated look of horror and held his hands up in front of his face in mock-placation. “You’re not allowed to throw the watering can at me, I’m injured!”





	Spring is Sprung

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gaaladrieel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaaladrieel/gifts).



> Hello everyone! I’m very excited to present my belated birthday gift for the wonderful Gaaladrieel, who has been a great friend and a major source of sanity for me this year. A month or so ago, I made a questionnaire for her to fill in so she could build her own fic-prompt and this little one-shot was the result! 
> 
> Although this fic isn’t part of the Obstacles!verse, it is still set in Yorkshire – which is always beautiful and green, and a wonderful place for gardening ;)

The first fair Sunday in April found Thorin and Bilbo out in their little green garden, the weather finally fine enough for them to attend to the flowerbeds that bordered their cosy stone cottage. Or rather, for Thorin to attend to the flowerbeds whilst Bilbo fussed and waved his hands, giving rather complicated directions from the deck chair set out for him on the slightly overgrown grass of their square lawn.

It had happened one bitterly cold morning in February. Bilbo had simply put one foot out of their door and slipped on the icy front step. His feet had gone out from under him in what would have been a fairly comical fall had it not led to a broken leg and several months in a plaster cast. Said cast was now covered in signatures and well-wishes from family and friends. Fili and Kili, his teenage nephews, had decided that what the cast really needed was a six-panel cartoon strip retelling his ‘epic fall’ in unsettling and savage detail.

Up until this point, Thorin would have said his husband was bearing his injury admirably – but now, with Bilbo scowling at him from his deck chair throne, he was starting to change his mind. Trying not to be too put-out, he lifted the ancient watering can again, feeling the dark green paint peeling and flaking away beneath his sweaty, dirt-dusted fingers. He turned to the flowerbed immediately on his left and began to shower the tulips with water, their fiery, cup-shaped heads seeming to strain up and guzzle down the water they were being offered. Thorin was purposefully generous, tipping the watering can with one hand whilst he reached up to wipe away the perspiration beading on his forehead with the back of his arm.

A few feet away, Bilbo slowly leaned over to deposit his now-empty mug onto the fold-out table at his side, ignoring the painful twinge in his back. His gaze flickered to Thorin, hoping he hadn’t noticed him wince, but it appeared the love of his life was far too distracted by his murder of a group of tulips.

“Thorin! You’re going to drown them!” Bilbo cried, pulling himself up straighter in his chair.

Thorin immediately paused in his attentions, withdrawing from the tulips like a guilty puppy. He opened his mouth to offer his apologies, but the way Bilbo narrowed his eyes made him think better of it. Instead he shuffled across the grass to the newest additions to their garden: a crowd of beautiful pink peonies, which Thorin had – with much fretting from Bilbo – rebedded that afternoon. Their bright, blushing petals were a stark contrast to the dark soil beneath them and Thorin couldn’t help but take a step back and admire his work.

He and Bilbo had visited their local garden centre yesterday. Thorin had wheeled Bilbo up and down the colourful rows of flowers, trying not to snigger when he had used his crutches to make prodding gestures at the pensioners lingering in front of the peonies. Thinking back, Bilbo had been quite demanding as he ordered Thorin around the centre – perhaps he ought to have seen today coming, even before their outing yesterday. Bilbo was incredibly proud of their garden and Thorin supposed there was a reason that, in fifteen years of marriage, he had never been allowed to help out before.

Thorin had just begun to sprinkle the peonies with water, a baptism to welcome them to their new home, when he heard Bilbo make a strangled sound in the back of his throat and he immediately looked up.

“You’ve already watered the peonies!” Bilbo said, sounding exasperated.

Thorin tried not to bristle, but the heat wasn’t helping and he reached up to wipe at his forehead again. “Well maybe you should stop distracting me then!” he snapped back, his fingers flexed around the slowly rusting watering can.

Bilbo blinked, seeming surprised, but then he pulled an exaggerated look of horror and held his hands up in front of his face in mock-placation. “You’re not allowed to throw the watering can at me, I’m injured!”

Thorin couldn’t help but smirk at that. “I wouldn’t dare, the fact you think I’d even consider it wounds me,” he said, engaging in his husband’s theatrics and clutching a hand to his heart.

Bilbo gave a definite snigger as he wiggled a little in his deck chair to get comfortable again, but then he suddenly stopped, pain flashing across his expression. He glanced at Thorin in a panic before quickly looking away again.

“Bilbo…?” Thorin said softly, setting the watering can down on the grass.

“I’m fine!” Bilbo’s voice was higher than usual.

“If you need me to fetch you some more painkillers, I…” Thorin trailed off at his husband’s guilty expression. Oh. It was then that he realised it wasn’t Bilbo’s leg that was the source of his discomfort.

Bilbo squirmed under Thorin’s scrutinising gaze, feeling his cheeks grow hot as his back continued to throb. Against the advice of probably every health professional at the Airedale General and their own better judgements, he and Thorin had attempted to make love last night for the first time since his accident. They had been making do in other ways, of course, but this was the first time they decided to give some good, old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill sex a go… with some less-than-desirable consequences. Bilbo had definitely felt his back go, but insisted that he had been left unscathed by their attempt. He didn’t want to upset Thorin further when he knew he was already self-flagellating for even suggesting they swap their usual evening viewing of _Midsomer Murders_ for a more practical and rigorous activity.

“I’m fine, Thorin,” Bilbo said again, offering Thorin what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing a hot bath and an early night won’t sort out.”

Thorin shifted on the grass, torn between continuing his gardening tasks or going to give Bilbo a proper once over to check he wasn’t hiding anything else from him.

“I chose the peonies for a reason, you know,” Bilbo said, his expression fond as he strategically changed the subject. “For their meaning… They mean –”

“‘Fuck off, Thorin?’” Thorin suggested airily.

Bilbo snorted. “Of course not, you silly man! They symbolise marriage, and more specifically they mean ‘happy marriage’.”

And then Thorin found himself blushing. It was almost twenty years since he and Bilbo had first met, yet Bilbo could still catch him off guard and make his heart feel all giddy.

“I don’t think the peonies and my watering can have had a happy marriage,” he replied, eyeing the twice-watered peonies with an edge of concern.

Bilbo only smiled. “I’m sure they’ll survive… Although I’m not sure our camellia bush will for much longer if it doesn’t get watered soon.”

“Yes, yes, alright.”

Bilbo grinned sweetly as Thorin picked up the watering can again and moved to their camellia bush that was growing against the dry stone wall at the back of their garden. The occasional sheep would find its way down from the surrounding fields and stick their head over the wall to have soft, white camellia flowers for breakfast. Bilbo tended to spot them through the windows of his study and a couple of forceful bangs on the window panes were usually enough to drive them off.

It took Thorin some time to notice that he hadn’t been scolded for a while, but when he looked across the garden he saw that Bilbo had fallen asleep in his chair, his head lolling against his shoulder. It appeared he’d tired himself out with all his fussing, and Thorin couldn’t deny how adorable Bilbo looked now that he wasn’t telling him off and his nose was twitching every so often as he slept. Taking full advantage of the silence, that was broken only by the occasional coo of a wood pigeon, Thorin set to work on the last flowerbed.

He had heard Bilbo grousing about the weeds that had been weaving their way around his most beautiful flowers, and so he decided he better usurp the little blighters and return them to their rightful place on the compost heap behind their shed. Kneeling in the grass beside the flowerbed, Thorin set to work, his fingers quickly becoming thick with mud as he wrapped them around the leafy weeds, almost as if he were throttling them, before dragging them out of the soil, roots and all. He had got through most of the flowerbed when he heard a noise of alarm coming from Bilbo’s chair.

“Thorin! What on earth are you doing to my freesias?” he gasped, his face looking oddly pale.

Thorin’s eyes slowly dropped to the green, straggly plant he had clutched in his hand. His heart began thumping against his ribs as his gaze moved back to Bilbo. “I… I thought you wanted me to weed the flowerbeds…?”

“Yes, but you’ve just ripped all the flowers out of them instead!”

Thorin looked at his hand again in cold horror. “You mean… this isn’t a weed?”

Bilbo threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Of course not! The freesias just haven’t bloomed yet – that’s why there aren’t any flowers on them.”

On closer inspection, Thorin could see a cluster of buds on the long stem and there was a little yellow peeking through the green. Bugger. Hanging his head in shame, he slowly placed the freesia’s pale roots back into the hole he had dragged it from and began to pat the soil in around it.

“Thorin…”

Thorin ignored Bilbo and turned to the pile of uprooted freesias at his side, feeling something sickly and hot burning in his stomach. He used one hand to scoop up the earth, making another hole so that he could start correcting his terrible mistake.

“Thorin, please…”

Bilbo watched as his husband studiously avoided his eye, focused solely on his task of rectifying his rather disastrous attempt at weeding. There was something so ridiculously endearing about Thorin’s determination to put things right and Bilbo simply couldn’t stay mad at him – he knew he was only trying to help after all. Even if Thorin had not been blessed with green fingers, he had certainly been blessed with a wonderful heart and Bilbo hated seeing him suffering so.

“Thorin, love, just stop for a moment…”

Thorin finally dared to meet Bilbo’s gaze and Bilbo opened his arms, entreating him to abandon the flowerbed and come for a much-needed hug.

“Come on, come over here,” he said gently, stretching his hands towards him, his expression soft and sincere.

Thorin was initially reluctant, eyes lingering on the devastation of the flowerbed before him, but then he let out a sigh and smacked his hands together to shake some of the soil from them. He rose from his knees, pretending he definitely didn’t hear either of them click, and then wiped his fingers on his old jeans. Approaching Bilbo’s deck chair with caution, he still let his husband take both his hands in his own and give them a reassuring squeeze.

“Now, there’ll be no sulking,” Bilbo said firmly.

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, but then decided against it: of course Bilbo knew that was exactly what he was doing.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a tyrant today,” Bilbo continued quietly. “These past couple of months have been difficult and you’ve been so wonderful to me, so absolutely marvellous – I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Thorin suspected Bilbo may have been laying his gratitude on a little thick to make sure he really didn’t start sulking, but still he smiled. “In sickness and in health,” he murmured, lifting his and Bilbo’s joined hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m sorry I’ve been getting cross with you,” Bilbo said, expression contrite. “I know you’ve only been trying to help.”

Slowly lowering himself onto the grass at Bilbo’s side, Thorin rested his head against his husband’s forearm. He could feel Bilbo’s smile as he leaned down to peck a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry I destroyed your garden.”

“ _Our_ garden,” Bilbo corrected. “And you haven’t destroyed it… You’ve just been keeping our flowers on their toes. It’s good for them, character-building.”

Thorin had to chuckle at that, and he was starting to feel a little better about his unsuccessful weeding operation.

“Also…” Bilbo sounded positively mischievous as he kissed Thorin’s forehead again, nuzzling into the flashes of silver hair at his temples. “All that exertion out here in the sun has made you lovely and sweaty… and I happen to think you’re looking incredibly _sexy_ right now.”

Thorin groaned, feeling the colour in his cheeks darken. “You did not just call me _sexy_ … Are we even allowed to use that word anymore?”

Bilbo ran his fingers over the back of Thorin’s neck, making him shiver. “I’ll always think you’re sexy, even when you’re ninety-something… Sod the ‘Calendar Girls’, I’ll want a calendar of you posing with flowers strategically placed over your private bits.”

“Flowers I’ve accidentally ripped out of their beds during weeding, you mean?” Thorin asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Bilbo laughed first and Thorin soon joined in. They both leaned in and rested their heads together as they looked out across their little Eden and to the rolling green hills beyond it. Bilbo ran a few fingers over Thorin’s bare forearm in soothing, affectionate motions and their soft breathing slowly fell into sync.

“Spring is sprung,” Bilbo murmured, eventually breaking their silence.

Thorin hummed his agreement, but then Bilbo continued: “The grass is riz… I wonder where the birdie is… They say the bird is on the wing… but that’s absurd: surely the wing is on the bird.”

Thorin straightened up to study Bilbo, wondering where this curious little rhyme had come from. “Have you been sitting out in the sun too long?” he asked, with a wry smile.

“It’s just something my dad used to say,” Bilbo said, sounding pensive. “In my house it was never officially spring until Dad had started up with ‘spring is sprung, the grass is riz’.”

Bilbo paused for a moment, looking around the garden before adding: “Oh God, I’ve literally become my dad.”

Thorin thought back to last weekend when he’d been wittering about something or other and his sister, Dis, had stopped him with a ‘You do realise you sound just like Dad when you do that?’ remark. “I think we all become our parents in the end,” he said quietly.

“And that comment is far too profound for a Sunday afternoon,” Bilbo grinned, giving his husband a fond nudge.

Thorin grinned back, before making the decision to get to his feet. He collected Bilbo’s empty mug from the fold-out table next to him. “I’ll go and make us some tea before I finish off, er, _rebedding_ the freesias.”

Bilbo nodded. “Thanks, love.”

Thorin was about to move towards the kitchen door when Bilbo grabbed hold of his free hand, twining their fingers together.

“I love you,” he whispered, smiling up at Thorin with such a look of affection in his green eyes.

Thorin smiled, leaning down to kiss his husband’s slowly-silvering curls. “I love you too,” he replied, rubbing his nose into Bilbo’s hair in a way that always made his ears turn red. “Always have done, always will.”

Bilbo reluctantly relinquished Thorin’s hand, his ears prickling a little with heat, and let his eyes scan their garden. Perhaps, if he got himself settled in a comfortable position by one of the flowerbeds he could help with the weeding.

“I better not catch you out of that chair whilst I’m making tea,” Thorin warned, and Bilbo was left unsurprised that he’d been able to read his mind. “I’ll be watching from the kitchen window.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but still smiled as Thorin turned away. Listening to his footsteps padding across the stone paving as he disappeared into the cottage, Bilbo let out a sigh of contentment. The wood pigeons were softly cooing in the trees beyond their garden walls and a light breeze began to flutter through the brown roots of the freesias and tickle the red petals of the tulips, who nodded their cupped heads, as if they were agreeing with such feelings of absolute contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> Camellia (white) = You're adorable, perfected loveliness.  
> Freesia = Trust, friendship.  
> Tulips (red) = Declaration of love. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
